The Arrangement
by rebelxxwaltz
Summary: STATE OF PLAY 2003: Della and Bell continue their information sharing arrangement after the Collins scandal wraps up. As they work together, their emerging friendship is threatened by mutual attraction and misunderstandings. Chapter seven is here. :D
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Arrangement 1/?  
**Author:** rebelxxwaltz  
**Rating:** Will be M overall. This part T, I suppose.  
**Fandom:** _State of Play_ (2003). Yes, you heard it right!  
**Pairing: **Della Smith/DCI Bell  
**Fic Summary: **Della and Bell continue their information sharing arrangement after the Collins scandal wraps up. As they work together, their emerging friendship is threatened by mutual attraction and misunderstandings.  
**Word Count:** This part is around 3,500 words. 9,000 have been written so far, and the fic should end out around 15,000. ish. 0_0  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _State of Play_ or any of the characters. I do own my fun little theories, my wild assumptions, and _lots_ of delicious chunks of head canon.  
**Spoilers:** Yes, for the whole series.  
**Notes:** I re-watched _State of Play_ recently and this fic suddenly started pouring itself out. For someone that has had writer's block for a good while, this is definitely of the good. There will be more notes at the bottom of the chapter for anyone who actually enjoys authorial babbling. Anyhow, it was raining cats and dogs today, so I thought I would start posting this in honor of my abiding love for a waterlogged DCI Bell. ^_~  
**Thanks:** To The Otter for being (as usual) extremely indulgent and helpful, and to everyone who showed an interest in reading a fic with this pairing- the encouragement was very motivational! Hope you guys will like it.

**The Arrangement  
Chapter 1**

It began in the usual way, as far as these tenuous partnerships go. They didn't see each other for several weeks after the whole Collins scandal died down- things were quiet on all fronts, as though even the public needed a break from crime and intrigue. Such peace never lasts long in a city like London, however. It may have been weeks, but it felt more like a matter of days before a gun running ring possibly involving both the Russian mob and the nephew of an absurdly minor royal exploded out of nowhere and DCI William Bell found himself dropped squarely into the shit once more. It is a known fact that reporters always turn into cats batting psychotically at a colorful ball of yarn whenever the aristocracy flirts with the criminal underworld, and therefore he was sure it would only be a matter of time before the intrepid Della Smith turned up on his doorstep again.

Bell was one in a long line of natural policemen who had fallen victim to that age old pitfall of being married to his job. It had never bothered him, not really. Perhaps it had bothered his wife just a little. She had teased him about it often enough, right up until she died of a brain aneurysm at age thirty six. He had only just made DCI then- their relationship may not have been perfect, but they'd been happy enough. They'd bought a house, even talked about having kids. His natural reaction to the sharp and sudden loss was to throw himself even further into his work, and once he'd done so there seemed little point in going back.

In many ways, he lived at the station. His office was where he spent most of his time, and he just about managed to get home often enough so that he didn't have to start keeping clean shirts hidden in the locker room. His social life, such as it was, consisted mainly of trips to the pub with his subordinates once or twice a week. Bell very rarely drank to excess, the most notable exception being one incident involving a murder/suicide two months after his wife had died. He'd consumed so many Scotches that a loyal and solicitous Sergeant Cheweski had to drag him home and deposit him into his bed where, once left to his own devices, the floodgates had finally opened up and poured out a textbook breakdown.

He had wept then, gasping for breath with the air-stealing drunken sobs characteristic of a man who doesn't even realize he's been holding his feelings in, crying violently for nearly an hour because the murdered woman had looked so much like his own dead wife. Wiping at his eyes long after the tears had dried, he'd fiddled with his still-gleaming wedding ring and stared at the ceiling as morning light poured through the window and he was able to sleep at last.

And that was it, really. After purging those bitter remnants of his grief, life had fallen into a pattern resembling normality over the next eighteen months or so. Major crime kept happening with disturbing regularity, and that kept DCI Bell busy enough. Aside from the typical depraved misdeeds of the city, things were relatively calm until that fateful night at the hospital- the night when the newly minted DI Brown was killed, and when William Bell met Della Smith for the first time.

He didn't think much of her at first, and why should he? She was a thorn in his side, a worse than usual journalistic nuisance, getting in the way of his investigation and putting people in danger. The slightly prickly bearing and the frumpy clothes were earmarks of a woman who was both young and small in stature, overcompensating wherever it was possible in order to be taken seriously. Her barely hidden refusal to cooperate with his initial inquiries along with what seemed to be an infuriating string of inexplicable white lies had made Bell angry… and it was the most alive he could remember feeling in a _very_ long time.

Bell looked up at a sharp knock against the doorframe to find his sergeant looking rather harassed. "Chewy?"

"Bloke getting ready to open up for dinner service just found a body in the alleyway behind his restaurant. Very dead. Can't these bastards ever wait to report crime until after the shift change?"

Allowing a brief smile, Bell stood quickly, donning his overcoat and referring to the clock on the wall with a slight tilt of his neck. "It's not even gone six. Pub'll still be standing after we sort it- damn boring way to spend an evening anyway. Best crack on."

As they hurried out the front doors of the station, Bell spotted a lone figure crossing the road at the corner. He recognized Della Smith straight off, his eyebrows shooting up in a brief and involuntary gesture of pleased surprise. Her small form approached with typical confidence, feet clad in flat brown boots. She pulled restlessly at the neckline of her cardigan as a breeze blew strands of light brown hair across her face. He gestured to Chewy, who nodded and continued toward the car park. William Bell removed his hands from his pockets and stood just a little bit straighter as Della reached the bottom of the station stairs, regarding him with those ever inquisitive brown eyes.

**xxxxx**

Study nursing, they'd said. It's the easiest way to get a job these days. What can you do with a poncey liberal arts degree? _Journalism_? What do you want to do _that_ for? May as well go get a job at Tesco or grab yourself a regular spot in the dole queue.

Glasgow was a bit bleak in her youth, especially as far as her family was concerned. Her father spent most of his time in the pub, especially after the eldest Smith child managed to get his brains smashed out on the pavement by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A bystander killed during a late night street racing accident, Andrew had been seventeen when he died. Her parents never bounced back. Her mother cried, her father drank. Della languished in the background, fourth child of six, determined to show that she was different.

She had finished her studies in London, at City University. It took four years of aggressive freelancing before her CV was sufficiently stacked to catch the eye of Cameron Foster, and she'd had her first assignment before the interview was even over. At twenty nine she was still one of the youngest staff writers at The Herald, although Dan had recently edged her out- in youth and impetuousness if not in overall skill. She couldn't complain, though. They had all worked together on the tangled web of intrigue that was the Collins story, and having her name on that particular byline was certainly a feather in her cap. Three papers and two news agencies had tried to recruit her in the weeks since the story went to print. Even Reuters wanted her, for heaven's sake, but Della had no interest in going to the Middle East and being blown up just to get a story that everyone else would already have. London was dangerous enough at the moment, thanks. Speaking of which…

"…were bringing the guns in on trucks originating in France. The import company is definitely the main front they're using, but it's not clear yet where all of the money comes from. There's got to be something we're missing."

Frowning, Cameron steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He was very still and quiet, but managed to maintain his usual editorial air of impatience. "What are the Met saying about it?"

"I've asked around," Cal leaned back, fiddling with his pen. "One of my contacts seems to think they have someone under deep cover with the Russians. The operation isn't related to this matter, though, and they risk blowing the cover if they try to contact their man on the inside." Placing the pen carefully back onto the tabletop, Cal peered at her slyly out of the corner of his eye. "I thought maybe Della might know more."

Snapping to attention, Della scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. "What? Why would I know anything?"

Everyone was quiet for a long moment. Dan snickered as Pete elbowed him in the ribs. "Haven't you asked _your copper_?"

Rolling her eyes, Della sank back down into her chair. Of course she should have known the teasing wouldn't end right along with the Collins story. It would be foolish to expect otherwise. When journalists think they know something, they clamp onto it like a dog with its jaws around a particularly juicy bone- this lot especially. Her eyebrows furrowed, contemplating the notion of DCI William Bell. Would their information sharing arrangement continue now? They had spent quite a bit of time together during the Collins scandal, falling into an easy and mutually beneficial pattern of reciprocity. She'd had no reason to contact him in the past few weeks, although she'd scrolled past his name in her phone on a couple of occasions and felt oddly tempted. "I suppose I could…"

Cameron stood abruptly, signifying the end of the briefing. "Do. You've got a big fish on the line there, my girl. Best not let him wriggle off the hook." He removed his glasses, giving Della a pointed look as he slipped them into his pocket and walked back toward his desk. The rest of the team dispersed, hurrying off to check sources or find a new lead to dig into.

Resigned to the inevitable, Della grabbed her cardigan off the back of her chair and made her way to the lift. It was just past five o'clock now, and if she knew Bell he would be at the station for another hour at the very least. She would make it there in good time even if the tube was jammed with commuters. Della tamped down the butterflies that were rippling through her midsection, refusing to let her mind dwell over how he would react to seeing her again.

**xxxxx**

The sky was a particularly murky shade of gray, not that this was unusual for London. As she met up with his tall form just outside the station Della couldn't help but notice that the grayness all around- the sky, the pavement, the harsh modern façade of the station building- made the blue of DCI Bell's irises stand out more sharply. It wasn't the first time she had noticed the man's eyes. They were changeable, the way she imagined a dragon's eyes would be. They had flashed a steely molten green at her the first night that they met at the hospital, and she'd seen those eyes display blues ranging from iceberg-at-midnight to the protective warmth of cornflower since she'd known him. They were currently exhibiting a clear cobalt, and regarding her with polite interest.

"Wandering a bit far afield from your natural habitat today aren't you, Della? You lost?"

It was possible that she had imagined it, but she could have sworn there was a smile hidden behind his question. She tilted her head, stepping sideways onto the first of the station stairs so that she could look him in the eye more directly. "No, Chief Inspector." She noticed that he seemed distracted, glancing toward the car park. "I was actually hoping for a bit of a chat. Is this a bad time?"

"We're just off on a shout. Can it wait until tomorrow?"

They peered at each other, and Della sensed an odd tension stretching between the two of them like a wire. "It's… important. At least I think it is. I could come with you...?"

Bell broke eye contact, releasing a small chuckle. "What, to a nice fresh murder scene? That wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me."

Biting her lip, Della idly wondered if she was being given the brush off. She also briefly contemplated the state of her mental health, seeing as she felt like an awkward teenager trying to ask an older boy to the dance. She twisted her hands, momentarily unable to meet his glance. Perhaps the direct approach was best. "It's about Edward Clarke and the guns."

Sighing, Bell rubbed the back of his neck. "Why am I not surprised?" He looked at her appraisingly, studying her with his intent blue gaze. "No rest for the wicked, I suppose. There's a pub about a block past the tube station. You know it?"

"I'm sure I can find it…" She looked at him questioningly, feeling unaccountably nervous as Sergeant Cheweski pulled up to the curb in an unmarked car.

"This should take an hour, maybe two. Three if it's a particularly messy one, which they usually aren't. Shall we make it nine o'clock?"

Della released a breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding, nodding slowly when she realized he was still waiting for a reply. "Sounds fine. Just call if you won't make it back in time." Suddenly aware that she was operating under a rather large assumption, she grabbed for her mobile reflexively, cheeks turning slightly pink. "You have still got my number…?"

"Yeah. Yeah, 'course I have." Bell backed away slowly, inclining his head as a means of farewell. "See you later, then."

"Right, okay." she replied weakly, watching as he climbed into the passenger seat with a characteristic pout fixed back onto his features.

_It's strictly business_, she reminded herself. _Don't give those juvenile tossers back at the Herald the satisfaction_. So why, then, did she suddenly feel like she had a date tonight?

**xxxxx**

In the end it was about eight thirty when he walked through the door of the pub. The murder itself hadn't exactly qualified as messy, but there were a few complications that had made things slow going for SOCO and the situation was delicate enough that he wouldn't have felt right leaving the scene. It all pointed back to guns, yet again. Three of them in a satchel in the dumpster next to the body, quite clearly not the same caliber as the one used in the execution style killing that had occurred.

They hadn't learned much about the victim; it was still unclear whether he was connected to the syndicate that had been plaguing London's streets of late, or if he was an unfortunate bystander who popped up in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wasn't employed by the restaurant owner who had found him or at the tavern on the other side of the alley, which made Bell suspect the former. He _was_ Russian, as it happened. The complexity of this case was growing by leaps and bounds, and that made him feel even more cautious about the meeting he had arranged with Della Smith. The woman was too clever by half, and he really didn't need the press monkeying about with his investigation. Professional defenses firmly in place, he leaned against the bar and scanned the dimly lit room for her presence.

She was over in the corner, and hadn't spotted him yet. Head bent over a laptop computer, she had a half-finished glass of red wine in her left hand and one foot tucked beneath the opposite leg. Whatever was on the screen was commanding Della's full attention, so he continued to study her while he waited for the barman to make his way over. Bell couldn't refrain from noticing how the candlelight caught the golden undertones in her hair. _This is not helping_, he thought to himself.

The barman arrived quickly, recognizing a familiar face who needed a drink and always paid his tab. "What can I get you, Inspector?"

"Just a Scotch, Charlie." Bell chanced another glance at Della, whose concentration had apparently been interrupted by the sound of his voice. She was peering at him calmly. Looking at her nearly empty glass, he quirked a questioning eyebrow and made a drinking motion with one hand. She nodded, giving a small smile as she snapped the laptop shut. "And whatever the lady is drinking. Cheers." Collecting the drinks, he made his way to the table with just a few long strides.

"Thanks. Interesting night?" Della propped an elbow on the scratched wooden surface, leaning her temple against a closed fist.

Sliding into the booth across from her, Bell took a sizable sip of his drink and leaned back against the slightly worn banquette. "Homicide isn't always as enthralling as people think. This one's hardly worth a mention." Della shot him a skeptical look which made it clear that she knew he wasn't being entirely truthful, but she didn't push it. Apparently her journalistic instincts were sharp enough to know when it's best _not_ to ask a question.

They sat in companionable silence for a long moment, and it occurred to Bell that under different circumstances their current setting could be considered quite romantic. Candlelight, drinks, a secluded booth in the corner of a quiet pub, the avid way she studied him with those warm brown eyes… He tapped the fingers of one hand against the side of his glass in agitation, using the other to loosen his necktie. Christ, he was in big trouble.

**xxxxx**

_Don't stare, Della. For fuck's sake, just don't_. William Bell was sitting across from her looking slightly rumpled, utterly masculine, and completely delicious. He was not a small man, and the solid bulk of his presence dominated both the space he occupied and all facets of her attention. She used all of her considerable willpower to school her face into a neutral expression as Bell tugged at his necktie and popped open the top button of his dress shirt. Della could smell just a hint of his aftershave, and could actually _almost_ hear the sound of her professional comportment crumbling in the wake of the two glasses of wine she had consumed. Bell took another slug of Scotch and rolled his shoulders. Della only just managed to remember that she had come here for a reason.

She cleared her throat and leaned forward slightly. "So, about Clarke…"

The man across from her frowned, biting the inside of his bottom lip as he searched her eyes. "Look, Della. There's only one way I can do this. You tell me what you think you know, and I'll fill in the blanks if I can. If you've got something I don't already have, I can't promise to keep it quiet this time. This case is running us 'round in circles."

His uncompromising tone gave her pause. "You won't say you got the information from me…?"

"Not unless I have no other choice. And I'll warn you in advance."

Della cocked her head to the side. "I'm sticking my neck out here too, you know."

"I'll lose a lot more than just a juicy story if this all goes wrong. Take it or leave it."

It wasn't the arrangement she'd been hoping for, but she could understand the reasoning from his perspective. Sharing information was a risk in many ways, and an outright danger in others. His scrutinizing gaze was smoky blue and intense in the flickering light of the simple white candle between them. They stared each other down, Bell looking rather uptight with the flats of his hands resting on the tabletop. Della knew this was a battle she wasn't going to win. She sighed. "Okay. Meet me again tomorrow and I'll give you everything."

Bell visibly relaxed, dropping his eyes to study the amber liquid in his glass. For a split second, Della hoped he might willfully misinterpret the poorly phrased offer she had just made. He was a detective chief inspector, after all. Wasn't he trained to notice double meanings and extrapolate people's hidden motives? There was a flash of unguarded curiosity in his expression when he looked back up at her, and Della's heart beat a little bit faster- right up until she noticed the shining band of platinum glinting up at her from Bell's left ring finger.

**xxxxx**

Here comes the 'more notes' section!

Oops, is that a wedding ring? Tsk tsk. Whatever is Della supposed to think?

For anyone who is wondering, this story does _not_ have a very involved crime-centric plot. It has pretty curtains that try to look like a plot. Don't pay them too much mind. The fic is completely relationship driven, which will become obvious as it progresses.

In regards to Bell's marital status, I did feel bad for killing off his wife. I believe other authors have done so in the past as well... it was really the only way to get her out of the way and also explain why he's still wearing a wedding ring. For the purpose of this fic I wanted Bell to be in a situation where he's entirely free to pursue a relationship. Too bad nobody told Della that!

Don't worry, I haven't developed too much of a conscience or anything- I already have a much more salacious Della/Bell fic idea which involves copious amounts of adultery. Like I can resist? Please. ^_~

I've really enjoyed writing this story so far, and any feedback will be appreciated. The next part will be posted very soon. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **The Arrangement 2/?  
**Author:** rebelxxwaltz  
**Rating: **Will be M overall. Still T at the moment  
**Fandom: **_State of Play_ (2003). Yes, you heard it right!  
**Pairing: **Della Smith/DCI Bell  
**Fic Summary:** Della and Bell continue their information sharing arrangement after the Collins scandal wraps up. As they work together, their emerging friendship is threatened by mutual attraction and misunderstandings.  
**Word Count: **This chapter around 1600 (a bit shorter than the first).  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own State of Play or any of the characters. I do own my fun little theories, my wild assumptions, and lots of delicious chunks of head canon.  
**Spoilers: **Yes, for the whole series.  
**Notes: **I figured since there's a coffee shop scene in this chapter, maybe I should publish it... from a coffee shop. The author and the characters are all **WIRED**. Yay, espresso! More notes at the bottom, as usual.

**The Arrangement  
Chapter 2**

The meetings between Della Smith and DCI William Bell continued over the next several weeks, and if he noticed an increased coolness in her demeanor he never saw fit to mention it. Sometimes they would meet during the day and he would buy her lunch. Other times they'd catch up after work and she would pick up the bill for drinks. Both his investigation and her article were progressing, largely in thanks to their shared pool of information. They really did make a good team, Della had to admit. Poor Mrs. Bell must be a saint, because the man never seemed to stop working. Even at the weekend when Della at least tried to limit herself to half a Saturday at the office and a bit of work from home, Bell never showed any indication that he took a day off or spent much if any time away from the station.

On Sundays Della usually ventured out to one of London's many markets, or sometimes the cinema if the weather wasn't up to par. Craig had favored Portobello on Saturdays or the constant bustle of Covent Garden before he had dumped her for a long-legged Brazilian art student. That had only been three months ago, and she was still in the avoidance phase. It was all for the better as far as Della was concerned- she preferred something a bit more eclectic anyway. Sometimes she'd travel up to Camden Lock if she were in the mood to eat some dodgy food out of a paper carton and watch the proverbial rainbow of mohawks parading across the bridge at Regent's Canal. Today she had chosen Brick Lane, with its colorful atmosphere and quirky selection of vendors. Takeaway curry on her way home was an absolute given.

The weather was unseasonably warm, so Della had thrown on a lightweight vintage dress with a cardigan and flats, pinning her hair back loosely with tortoise shell combs. It was nice to be girly and casual once in awhile, since her line of work called for a more restrained approach to fashion. She was wandering through a used book shop when her mobile rang, earning her a death glare from the crotchety owner. Stepping out into the street, she raised an eyebrow at the call screen. _Bell_. Gorgeous, infuriatingly _married_ Bell, who she had been trying to avoid thinking about all day. "Hello?"

"Della. Where are you?"

She released a small laugh, shaking her head at his clipped tone. "I'm doing just fine today, _William_. Thanks for asking."

The other end of the line crackled, and she heard him sigh. "Please, it's important."

She relented, intrigued by his seriousness. "Brick Lane Market. Why, what's going on?"

"What the hell are you doing over there? If you needed a stolen bicycle I could have signed one out of lost property for you right here at the station."

"Ha bloody ha. Some of us actually take the day off on Sunday, you know."

He made what could be construed as an apologetic noise. "Sorry. Can you meet me? I've got the car. I'll come to you."

It was past three o'clock and the market was beginning to wind down. _So much for my lovely curry_. "Oh alright. I know a place that should suit."

**xxxxx**

The café in Shoreditch High Street was a bit bohemian for Bell's tastes, but they did at least appear to take their espresso seriously. It was one of those places that served a range of coffees and small plates by day, transforming into a smoky and gin soaked hideaway for the alternative in-crowd after dark. The chief inspector stuck out like a sore thumb in his shirtsleeves and tie, glad to have left his overcoat at the station as he perched at the stainless steel bar and tried to decipher the hastily chalked menu etchings. He'd draped his suit jacket over the back of his barstool, but the heat radiating off of the expensive coffee machines still had him pulling restlessly at his shirt collar. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled the sleeves up, and waited.

Each time someone entered the café, the door would creak annoyingly and slam itself shut. Bell looked over at one such occurrence, and nearly didn't recognize the woman who had just arrived. He couldn't remember ever seeing Della Smith look so effortlessly feminine, and his eyes raked over her with barely concealed interest as she approached. Her hair was pinned back and framed her face softly, the vintage sheath dress accentuating subtle but enticing curves that were usually hidden beneath bulky overcoats and the overly practical office clothes she wore.

As she arrived at his side and slid onto the adjacent stool, he noted that her cheeks were a bit flushed. Her walk from the nearby market had probably been unusually brisk, considering the time she'd achieved. She really _was_ beautiful- Bell had known that long before Cameron Foster pointed it out to him along with certain other facts about Della, which he had in fact been oddly interested in knowing. There had been a long-term boyfriend, Foster said, but he was out of the picture. Bell stared at her a moment too long, feeling unaccountably jealous. Could there be someone new, perhaps? He couldn't remember the last time a woman had gotten under his skin this way. Possibly not even before his wife had died, and certainly not since. Swallowing heavily, he composed himself.

"Hi," she breathed, setting her small leather handbag on the bar.

"Hi. You, errr, look very nice." He mentally cringed, cursing his misplaced command of the English language. "I hope I haven't interrupted anything."

Della looked confused, which probably meant he'd got the wrong end of the stick. She tilted her head, and he could see the wrinkles in her forehead smooth as she worked out his meaning. Her lips quirked into a wry smile. "Yes, as a matter of fact. You've sabotaged my date with Brick Lane's finest curry and a bottle of Pinot noir, which is an unforgivable transgression."

The relief that he felt at knowing she hadn't been out with someone gnawed at his resolve like a small but insistent animal as she responded in her lilting accent. Bell ignored the sensation and peered at her sidelong. "I'll buy you all the curries you can eat if you help me trace this document. Clarke isn't giving anything up and my hands are tied."

Crossing her legs at the ankle, Della swiveled toward him in her seat and carefully accepted the sheet of paper as he slid it across the gleaming metal surface. He watched as she ascertained the contents, eyes darting around the page eagerly. She was silent for a long moment, eventually meeting his eyes with inquisitive awe. "Where did you get this?"

"Remember the murder that happened a few weeks ago? The night you came to see me at the station?"

She gave him a pointed look, placing the sheet of paper back on the bar between them. "You mean the uninteresting murder that wasn't worth talking about?"

"That one, yes. The victim had this locked in a safe deposit box. We only found out about it when his next of kin got a notice from the bank that the fees had come due. This was the only thing inside."

Della nodded slowly. "I think I may be able to help, but there's nothing I can do today. Can I take it with me?"

He regarded her anxiously. He knew how independent she was, that she could take care of herself. Still, he couldn't help but remember how frightened she had been when her flat was broken into shortly after they first met. She was almost certainly stubborn enough to react badly if he lectured her, but he felt a natural protectiveness where Della was concerned. His expression was almost pleading as he nodded reluctantly. "So long as you're careful. It may be a dangerous object to have, and you already know where that can lead."

For a moment she looked irritated. He cringed slightly, bracing himself for the prickly remark that was bound to come, but it never did. Her expression softened into one of almost pleased understanding. "Okay, I'll be careful."

Something shifted between them in that moment. The way she was looking at him was alarmingly tender, and he couldn't stop himself from leaning toward her. He moved just a little too close, drawn in by the warmth in her eyes and and all around them in the highly caffeinated air. She mirrored his actions, and their fingers brushed as she reached over to take the document. The contact surprised them both, digits fumbling awkwardly as they attempted to move away. He heard her sharp intake of breath and bravely prolonged the touch, looking down at their tangled hands and brushing the pad of his thumb along the side of her index finger.

The paper fluttered to the floor, momentarily unnoticed as they searched each other's eyes. Bell's heart rate increased as he took in her slightly parted lips and dilated pupils, her face reflecting the same hesitant desire that was tightly wound in the pit of his own stomach. The tension stretched, and he could swear she moved imperceptibly closer. They remained paralyzed in this deliciously sensual deadlock until an unfamiliar voice broke into their bubble, shattering the mood.

"Excuse me, I think you may have dropped this…"

**xxxxx **

Aaaagh! Who is that!? Don't worry, it's not Della's ex-boyfriend or Bell's unacknowledged teen daughter from a previous marriage. It's probably just some random old man. Or I could just be saying that to throw you off! BWA! The only way to find out for sure is to come back next time! Hope you guys are enjoying the story so far. ^_^


	3. Chapter 3

Hello, all! Thanks so much to those of you who managed to find this story even though State of Play doesn't have a category on this site. The reviews were a welcome surprise!

I wanted to update this once more before my rapidly approaching adventure! Off to New York City to see Frank Turner on Sunday, and then down to Virginia for a few days to wreak havoc with some fandom buddies. Hope you guys like this one- it's the last of the T rated chapters, I can happily reveal. ;)

**The Arrangement**  
**Chapter 3**

Monday morning saw Della lingering in bed, unable to gain the motivation to begin her work week. All she could seem to think about was the feeling of Bell's hand touching hers. Revisiting that frozen moment in the café, Della had thought and dreamt numerous scenarios of what could have happened if that kindly little old man hadn't been there to retrieve the forgotten document from the floor. Indeed, her wildly active imagination had gotten quite adept at blocking out everyone other than William Bell and herself.

He was not what you might call traditionally handsome. He was a bit on the bulky side, with a slightly rough complexion and an ever-present frown on his face. Della had stopped kidding herself, however, because in other ways the man was absolute sex on legs. _Long_ legs, which accompanied a solid six-foot-something form. He had tremendous presence, distorting the space in a room to fit him just by being in it, although that might only be how a captivated Della saw him. Those mercurial blue eyes with their sensual long lashes were the absolute last straw, and she shivered as she recalled the feeling of his slightly calloused thumb tracing over her hand with deceptive gentleness. One tiny touch and Della wanted _everything_, wanted him almost painfully- but she wouldn't have him, because he was _married_ and she wasn't going to be the other woman. She just _wasn't. _Definitely _not._

Managing to drag herself out of bed and through her morning routine, Della was stationed at her desk by eight o'clock. The document from Bell was burning a metaphorical hole in her pocket, and she wanted to get onto some sources as soon as the day was old enough to start making phone calls.

Cal McCaffrey drifted in a few minutes later, cradling a cup of coffee. "What's got you looking so determined this early in the morning? Must be something pretty tasty…" He peeked over her shoulder.

Della handed Cal the paper as she continued sifting through some related files on her hard drive. "DCI Bell put this in my hands yesterday. It belonged to a murder victim with ties to Clarke. Bell's asked me to see if I can find out where it came from."

"You met Bell on a Sunday?" Cal pursed his lips teasingly, looking at her over the top of the paper. "Talk about mixing business with pleasure."

"Cal, this could break the story wide open."

Cal smiled knowingly. "Yeah but you never work on Sunday. It's practically your golden rule."

Blushing, Della avoided eye contact. "Look, I already get enough teasing from Dan. I don't need to hear it from you too."

"Yeah? Well maybe Dan is cleverer than I thought."

"If you're not going to help me, you can piss off."

Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, Cal relented and shrugged off his coat. "Okay, okay. Have you drummed up a list yet? Let's see what we can find."

Working through the morning, the two were able to identify numerous links between the murdered man, Pyotr Ivanov, and the import company supposedly funded by Edward Clarke. It was starting to look like Ivanov was the glue that held the whole mess together, but there was still something they were missing. It appeared that Clarke was making regular payments into Ivanov's account, presumably for services rendered. Cal had gone out to shake up some leads, and returned to the newsroom around four in the afternoon looking rather smug.

"It's not Clarke."

Della looked up from some unrelated copy she'd been working through for tonight's looming deadline, greeting her colleague with a stunned expression.

"Lucky coincidence. I have an old friend from uni who does premier accounts for Barclays- Sheldon Adams. He's a complete bastard. Totally bent and always willing to spill the beans, for a price."

"Oh? And you trust this person because…?"

Cal leaned against his desk. "Because I got him out of a major jam a few years back, and he owes me. According to him, Ivanov did receive regular cash infusions from the account listed on this sheet. But it wasn't Clarke."

Della waved an arm, exasperated. "How is that possible? It's Clarke's account!"

"Sheldon oversees all the high profile accounts at the Marylebone branch, which happens to be the one Clarke uses. He handled the transactions himself, and surveillance footage confirms it. You run along and tell Chief Inspector Bell that the person he needs to speak with is _Mrs_ Clarke."

It took just a few short seconds to digest this revelatory information, and Della was on the phone to Bell before Cal made it halfway to Cameron's office.

**xxxxx**

So that was it. Three phone calls and one headache inducing interview with Laura Clarke had the whole thing more or less wrapped up, tedious formalities notwithstanding. Bell shook his head, placing the receiver back onto the cradle. Sometimes what looked like a crime of major proportions turned out to be nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Ivanov had been a small-timer who wanted to play with the big boys, and he'd gotten himself in good with a trophy wife who was both bored enough to have an affair and callous enough to play games with her husband's money. The real Russian mob would want nothing to do with something this tacky and disorganized, so they'd done away with Ivanov as if he were merely gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe. They were even kind enough to leave just enough evidence, like the irrelevant guns in the dumpster, so that the Met or the press would eventually work it out.

Bell felt like a first class donkey that got lured up a blind alley only to have the dangling carrot yanked cruelly of reach. He would now have the unhappy task of mopping up the remaining mess, but it could wait until tomorrow. Clarke's wife might be a vapid cow, but she hardly constituted a significant flight risk with the minimal charges she would actually be facing. He sighed, leaning back in the chair with his hands folded over his abdomen. In all honesty, if she decided to bugger off to the Mediterranean on her husband's yacht it might actually save him some paperwork.

Another day done and dusted, another non-starter of a case, and tomorrow there would be just as many guns out on the streets as there were today. _God_, he needed a drink. Bell peered up at the clock, making a quick decision. It was only seven o'clock, and he owed somebody a curry.

**xxxxx**

The Masons Arms was the preferred public house of the Herald staff, especially when they'd just put a story to bed. The piece on Clarke hadn't turned out to be as explosive as expected, but it was still a job well done and proof positive that journalists were sometimes just as adept at solving crimes as the police. Natural curiosity and tenacious investigation were traits often shared by both professions, and reporters were happy to do the dirty work when law enforcement ran up against too much red tape. Ingenuity was a gift best not wasted.

Sipping at her wine as conversation flowed freely around the small table, Della reflected. Bell's thanks had been terse but sincere. His gruff response was almost certainly down to the dissatisfying nature of the result. She didn't envy him in this situation- her deadline had passed and the story had gone to print, ready to be consumed by a largely uninterested public first thing in the morning. The Met's case, on the other hand? Nothing so simple. Tracing a finger around the rim of her glass, Della wondered how many hours or even days Bell would have to spend crossing the t's and dotting the i's.

She was taken entirely by surprise, therefore, when she noticed Pete and Cal smirking stupidly at her. Scowling at them in return, Della leaned across to Helen and made a small disapproving noise. "Arrgh. What's the matter with those two? Have I got something on my face?"

Helen shook her head, clearly fighting to supress a smile of her own. Eyes fixed to a point beyond Della's left shoulder, the older woman pointed discreetly. "You appear to have a visitor."

Della shifted in her seat, searching the busy room. She quickly found the object of everyone's interest, eyes locking onto Bell's tall form over by the door. He was looking a bit lost with his hands in his pockets, slowly scanning his surroundings with a classic copper's patience. Ignoring Pete's inebriated giggles, Della departed from the table, grabbing her handbag automatically.

A half smile flickered across his face as he sighted her. "Hi. Foster told me where I might find you."

"Hello," she replied, "what brings you all the way down here?"

Bell shifted from one foot to the other, studying the garish carpet for a protracted moment. "Two things really," he began, eyes flickering up to hers and away again. "A strong desire for a large Scotch being one. As for the other, I seem to recall owing you a curry."

The look he was giving her, oddly shy and entirely too enticing, was making it difficult for Della to remember why this was in _no_ way a good idea. She managed to stutter out a response. "You don't have to do that."

Della could get no relief as he continued to look earnestly into her eyes, shaking his head slightly. "But I want to. As a way of saying thanks. Come on, my shout."

"I…" Logic said _no_, but her mouth seemed determined that the correct answer was _yes_. She surrendered. "Okay. Did you have someplace in mind?"

"Yeah, it's not far. We can walk if you like."

"Alright, let's go." She was already wearing her denim jacket, so she saw no need to return to the table and face the teasing of her colleagues.

Bell glanced over at the other Herald reporters, all of whom were pretending _not_ to watch their departure with avid interest. He jerked his head in their direction. "Don't you want to let that lot know you're off?"

Walking toward the exit, Della shrugged and threw him a small smile as she looked back to make sure he was following. "They're journalists. Let them puzzle it out."

**xxxxx**

It was a nice restaurant, if not quite as authentic as the venerable curry houses of Brick Lane. The journey from the pub had been fairly quiet but not awkward as they walked side by side along the edge of Regent's Park. Della had finally gotten her curry, and he had gone on the waiter's recommendation and chosen the daily tandoori special. Now they were sitting at a table in the corner enjoying an after dinner drink, Scotch for him and another glass of light bodied red wine for Della.

Valiantly he tried not to stare as she absently picked at a leftover piece of naan. The sight of her delicate fingers only made him remember the soft texture of her skin when their hands had touched and the frightening cocktail of emotions that contact had invoked. Bell wasn't sure if he was ready for this- it wasn't his ever growing level of physical attraction towards Della Smith that worried him, but rather the affectionate feelings that went along with it. He was almost certain she felt it too- he _was_ a detective after all- but their professional positions and a never ending parade of distractions and inconveniences had made it difficult to grow a personal relationship. Bell could count on one hand the number of conversations they'd had which weren't at least partly work related.

"So what will happen to Mrs. Clarke now?"

_Case in point_, he thought to himself. Leaning his arm on the table, he was careful not to encroach too obviously on her personal space. "Oh, just a slap on the wrist most likely. Or a nice hefty fine she can pay with her husband's money."

Della tilted her head, looking adorably outraged. "A man _died_! And all those guns Ivanov smuggled in, whether he was working with the mob or not- she was helping him! Don't you think she should be held responsible?" She took a large sip to finish off her cherry-colored wine, tongue peeking out as she pulled the glass away from her lips.

He released a small chuckle, shaking his head. "What I think doesn't matter. The law doesn't allow for shades of gray, Della."

They looked at each other for a few moments, without speaking. Bell could feel the ever present tension that existed between them creeping back in, but he couldn't bring himself to fill the charged space with evasive small talk. Anticipatory feelings made his throat feel tight as he thought about what it would be like to kiss her, maybe taste the wine she'd been drinking as their tongues tangled and stroked. Would Della channel the spark of her personality into a kiss like that?

She stared back, and he felt her eyes burning a trail from his lips to his neck as he swallowed down the last of his own drink. The discreet and efficient waiter chose this moment to return with the check.

"Well, I suppose I should be getting home. Fresh start on a new story tomorrow. Lord knows what Cameron will have me running after next, so I'd best get lots of sleep."

Bell dealt with the dinner bill and stood to help her back into her jacket. It was the polite thing to do, but he did not feel at all like a gentleman when he allowed one hand to brush the hair back off her denim-clad shoulder as he assisted her. "My car's not far. Fancy a lift?"

They were standing close, yet he couldn't be sure if the blush on her cheeks was caused by the alcohol or by him. She bit her lip, gazing at the knot of his tie. "I only live a few blocks from here. Would be silly to backtrack."

He nodded. "Come on then. I'll walk you."

**xxxxx**

****Hmm, so nice of him to offer! Gosh, I certainly hope they don't run into any obstacles on their way to Della's place... bad weather, for example? Yes I do love to tease actually, funny that you should ask! :P


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** The Arrangement 4/?  
**Author:** rebelxxwaltz  
**Rating: **Now officially M. Yes, that does mean what you think it does!  
**Fandom:** _State of Play_ (2003).  
**Pairing**: Della Smith/DCI Bell  
**Fic Summary:** Della and Bell continue their information sharing arrangement after the Collins scandal wraps up. As they work together, their emerging friendship is threatened by mutual attraction and misunderstandings.  
**Word Count:** This chapter around 3100. Probably 2500 of which is just smut. Oops, did I say that outloud? *cough*  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own State of Play or any of the characters. I do own my fun little theories, my wild assumptions, and lots of delicious chunks of head canon.  
**Spoilers:** Yes, for the whole series.  
**Notes:** Here's a nice big chapter to make up for the lack of update during my vacation! Things progress a bit here, but there are a few things that Della and Bell still haven't worked through…

**The Arrangement  
Chapter 4**

The wind had picked up to a surprising extent during their time in the restaurant, and Della huddled unconsciously closer to Bell's larger form as they progressed down the sidewalk. It felt like an early spring rainstorm blowing in, droplets falling randomly and capricious leaves fluttering in the sharply flavored air. Her flat was two and a half blocks from their current location, and she wondered if leaving the house without an umbrella might have been an unfortunate miscalculation.

She peeked at her companion out of the corner of her eye. He had adjusted the size of his strides to match those made by her shorter legs, walking beside her with a straight back and that alluringly rugged profile she had grown to know so well. Della knew without a doubt that she was totally lost when it came to William Bell. Less than halfway through dinner she had begun to theorize and bargain with herself in order to justify what she wanted. Maybe he was trapped in an unhappy marriage? He never talked about his wife, and Della had never seen so much as a photo of her in his office or rare glimpses into his wallet. Perhaps they were separated and seeing other people? That way it wouldn't hurt anybody if she took him home and shagged him senseless, right? At the rate things were going, she would soon be to the point where she no longer cared one way or the other.

Speaking of which, _what_ was she doing? Allowing him to walk her home was just asking for trouble. God, she would probably do something stupid like ask him in for a nightcap only to discover she had no alcohol in the flat. After that it was only one small but significant step to _coffee, tea or me?_

They were about half a block away from the corner of Della's street when the weather decided to stop playing games. The clouds that had been hidden by the darkened sky opened up and let loose with a deluge of cold, fat raindrops. Bell cursed quietly at her side, and they both increased their pace. The street they were in was quiet and residential, which meant there were no conveniently placed shops to duck into or awnings to use for temporary shelter. They were both getting absolutely drenched, and the rain just seemed to fall harder. Bell's overcoat offered him some protection, but Della could already feel the thick cotton material of her denim jacket sticking heavily to her arms. Spluttering slightly, she offered reassurance. "Nearly there now."

He nodded in acknowledgement, water streaming through his hair and dripping off the end of his nose. Della was reminded of the first night they had met at the hospital. The rain hadn't bothered him then, either. He had simply stood and watched her through the downpour, stoic and a little bit intimidating. How much had things changed between the two of them since that night?

When they reached the corner, they glanced briefly at each other and broke into a run, sprinting until they reached Della's building. As she fiddled with the key to the outside door, Bell leaned against the building and shielded her from the worst of the driving rain. Della's fingers were wet, as were the lock and her set of keys. As she fumbled breathlessly trying to unlock the door she could feel the heat of his body behind her, radiating even through all their layers of clothing, interfering with her already depleted level of concentration.

And then it happened. His large hands slid around, covering hers to still her jerky movements. Gently he grasped one of her wrists, turning her so that they were face to face. The raindrops continued to fall, but Della no longer noticed. She was completely paralyzed by his touch and the intensity of his expression. Reaching one long fingered hand up to her face, he pushed the wet strands of hair behind her ear in a tender gesture. Slowly he leaned closer, breathing unevenly as his thumb traced across her cheek from the corner of her mouth to the shell of her ear. Della shivered and leaned into the touch, eyelids fluttering closed as she waited.

The soft press of Bell's lips against hers made Della feel weak in the knees. He was cradling her face with two hands, sucking and teasing at her bottom lip with both of his. Urging her to respond, he gave the lip a gentle bite. Della's self control splintered and her arms shot up to embrace him, one hand grabbing onto his solid shoulder and the other winding around to dig into the short hair at the back of his head. Their lips searched, meeting more firmly as Della's back pressed against the façade of the building and she pulled Bell closer, sliding her hand up from his shoulder and along the side of his neck.

Growing in confidence, he speared his fingers into her wet hair and wrapped one of his arms around her waist, crushing their bodies together and leaving them both momentarily breathless. Their mouths broke apart, gasping, lips feathering as the raindrops slid sensually through the minuscule gap between them. Della felt a small moan erupt helplessly from her throat as he resumed his assault, tilting his head for better access as he coaxed her mouth open with his own.

It was good, _so good_, and she kissed him back with total acceptance and passion. Nothing mattered in that moment but his tongue twisting against hers, laced with the smoky vanilla notes of the Scotch he'd consumed after dinner. The fingers of one rain-soaked hand managed to find their way beneath her jacket and blouse to stroke the sensitive skin at the small of her back, and Della knew that she couldn't deny him anything. If he wanted her even half as much as she wanted him, she would give herself to him completely- regardless of the consequences.

**xxxxx**

The sensation of holding Della's small form against his body in the driving rain was making William Bell shudder with longing, and he wondered if she could feel it. She tasted of tart cherries and mint and spice, and he knew instinctively that it wasn't just because of the foods she had ingested that night. He pressed his mouth harder against hers as he felt one of her small hands caressing the side of his face; tracing the line of his eyebrow, stroking behind his ear, curiously exploring the point where their lips melded together with chilled fingers.

A few more blissful moments passed before Bell became dimly aware that they were still standing outside in a downpour. He had always liked the rain, even as a boy, but it was hardly an ideal setting for… whatever this was that was happening between them. Was it love? Mutual seduction? One flashing bright moment where everything clicks into place? He wasn't the type to wax poetic, but he also wasn't ready to let it end.

Reluctantly breaking the kiss, Bell leaned his forehead against Della's for a moment before looking into her dazed eyes, questioning. "Della, do you want to…?" He gestured to the door, with Della's keys sticking out of the lock.

She rested a hand on the lapel of his overcoat, face adorably flushed. "Yes. I mean, we should…" Her words trailed off and she turned toward the door, staying within the circle of his arms and leaning back against his chest. She finally succeeded with the lock as the rain continued to pelt down upon them. The dry warmth of the interior was a bit of a shock to the system, but Della took one of his larger hands and entwined her small fingers with his own. For a moment he felt like a child, letting her lead him through the hallway and into the stairwell. He would follow her anywhere, completely fascinated and totally smitten.

Reaching her flat at last, they tumbled through the door and just managed to lock it behind them. He pressed her against the wall and kissed her deeply, tugging at the buttons of her sodden jacket as her eager fingers pushed his overcoat off his shoulders. Their arms became tangled in the sleeves of their wet outerwear and they laughed breathlessly, breaking apart just long enough to shed the garments before their lips met again and hands continued to wander.

Pulling away and holding her at arm's length, Bell raked his eyes over Della, standing in front of him in a saturated white blouse. The material was soaked to the point where it was more or less translucent, and he could see the outline of her bra beneath the fabric. Slowly he slid his fingers into the v at the top of her blouse, tracing along her collarbone as he gazed into her honey brown eyes. She shuddered, parting her lips when his hand slid lower, hovering at the top button. He hesitated, wondering if they were moving too fast. It had been a long time for him, and he didn't want to pressure her.

The decision was made for him as her small hand guided his, urging him to continue as she moved closer. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheek as she nuzzled her face against the side of his neck much the way a cat would, using the tip of her nose to caress the sensitive skin behind his ear. Her lips brushed against the edge of his jaw and he heard her breathe, "William…"

It was his undoing. She had only ever used his name a couple of times before, and then only to tease him. In his position of authority, it was rare that anyone addressed him by his given name these days- he was always 'Sir' or 'Guv' or 'Inspector', almost never just 'William' except to the Super or his own mum, and then certainly not in the quietly provocative way Della had just whispered it against his skin. It made his heart twist and his libido thrill, blood pumping hard as a haze of passionate feeling washed over him. Then his hands were tearing at her blouse and he was swallowing her delighted gasps in the midst of a frenzied kiss.

Della's wet shirt fluttered to the floor and he felt himself being propelled backward as his fingertips traced gently along her exposed spine, curling into the skin at the small of her back to hold her against him. Her quick and clever hands dealt with his jacket, adding it to the rapidly growing trail of damp clothing they were leaving on the floor of her flat. Her lips wandered away from his as she concentrated on loosening his necktie and pulling his shirt tails out of his trousers. Soon she was working at his buttons, eyes fixed on the top of his chest as she uncovered it. Overwhelmed with sensation, he buried his face in her neck, scraping his teeth over her pulse point and groaning when her thumb teased one of his nipples through his undershirt.

Stumbling half-dressed through the door of Della's bedroom, they gazed at each other for a drawn out moment. She bit her lower lip, and his hand shot out, thumb tracing across her kiss swollen mouth. Trembling, she reached for his other hand and led him toward the bed.

**xxxxx**

_Ohgodohgodohgod_. Della's mind was racing, trying and failing to focus on the reasons why they shouldn't be doing this. All she could feel was his large hand on the skin of her back, and the obvious hardness pressing into her hipbone as her fingers scrambled to remove his clothes. Her efforts with his crisply ironed dress shirt revealed a plain white vest that shouldn't be sexy, but on him it just _was_. Backing away for a moment she peered at him. Shirt hanging open, eyes wide and glowingly blue in the light pouring in from the other room, the sight of him was so arousing that she had to bite her lip to stifle a groan. His thumb traveling across the seam of her mouth swiped all her lingering doubts away with it, and she took his hand in hers.

Shoes and remaining clothing were quickly shed and they tumbled down onto the covers, hands grasping and sliding over unadorned skin. Della couldn't stop kissing him, tongues locked in an intoxicating duel, a tantalizing give and take that felt so right it took her breath away. She made a small noise in the back of her throat and inhaled sharply as one of Bell's strong arms slid between her body and the bed, hoisting her backward so that her head rested on the pillows. Long legs tangling with hers, his other hand traced down over her shoulder to caress a breast, rubbing his palm over the sensitized nipple and causing Della to arch against him.

Della watched him, loving the weight of him above her as he began to trail kisses along the side of her neck and lower. He propped himself up with one arm so that he loomed above her, affording her an even better view of his lightly muscled arms and a torso that was broad but pleasantly solid. His lips continued on their path down her body and he insinuated one knee between her legs, kneeling up so that both his hands were free. HIs fingers traced from her neck down to her lower abdomen, then traveled back up to softly mold her pert breasts. Following the trail with his mouth, he paused to look her over as his slightly rough digits stroked down to her inner thigh, thumb rubbing skillfully at her apex. "God you're gorgeous. Della…"

She released a small sound of pleasure when his mouth teased a hardened nipple, trailing a hand up the smooth plane of his back and plowing her fingers through his short hair as she held him against her. Della's other hand traveled curiously downward, and her eyes widened in surprise as she found her rather large target. He swore softly, pressing his forehead against hers as she gently explored his hard length. She squeezed and stroked, placing small kisses on his chin and his earlobe as he gasped above her with his eyes closed in obvious rapture.

Abruptly Bell grasped her wrist, pinning it above her head and gazing down at her with an expression both feral and oddly tender. Knowing that this was the moment, Della touched his face with her free hand in an affectionate and imploring gesture. She hooked one leg around his hip, pulling him closer. Kissing his lips softly, she pressed her flushed skin longingly against his. "Now."

For a few seconds he teased, gripping his cock and rubbing the head against her clit to heighten the anticipation for both of them. Then he slid into her slowly, groaning breathlessly once he was fully embedded. Della was more than ready for him, but he was large and thick and she was content for a moment to delight at the feeling of him filling and stretching her. He slid his hand up from where it gripped her wrist, tangling his fingers with hers. Her free hand slid down the side of his body and around his waist, cradling him and urging him to move.

His lips hovered over hers as he withdrew slightly and flexed his hips to push even deeper. Della surged upward to meet him, a languorous warmth spreading through her limbs. She squeezed his hand and dug her heel into his backside, encouraging. "You feel _so good_…"

The words seemed to spur him on as they began to move together, adopting a gentle rhythm at first. Bell kissed her thoroughly, sliding his arm beneath her again so that his chest rubbed deliciously against her breasts with each thrust. The tempo built, unhurried but urgent as they touched each other insistently. She clung to him, moving both her legs around his waist and gripping the back of his shoulder. A spontaneous moan fell from Della's lips as his cock hit that magical spot inside her, and his eyes burned into hers, taking this as a cue to fuck her harder.

Della's head fell back on the pillow, glazed eyes rolling upward, overwhelmed as her senses were surrounded by Bell. She could feel everything; the delicious heat of his lips against her neck, the tightening of his muscles as she squeezed at his bicep and ran her hand over his back, the waves of pleasure that were rippling through her with every rapid and perfect grinding thrust of his hips. Even the coolness of his wedding ring against her fingers as he pinned their joined hands to the bed was a forbidden sensual indulgence as she let him own her body completely, surrendering.

She could tell he was close as well, whispering disconnected half-phrases against her ear, groaning as he pounded into her again and again. Their eyes met once more and she flew over the edge, clamping one leg about his waist and grabbing at his arse to hold him deep inside as she shattered, crying out and pulsing around him. Bell followed almost immediately, shuddering in her arms and crushing her even tighter against him. He shouted her name, emptying into her as Della's climax continued and his cock jerked repeatedly in time with her spasms.

Exhausted and spent he collapsed on top of her, face buried in the crook of her neck. They were both breathing heavily, and Della gasped as she stretched and caused a tingling aftershock to travel through their still connected bodies. Rolling onto his back, Bell pulled Della with him, wrapping both his arms around her and caressing the sensitized skin of her bare back. She smiled against his chest, placing one hand over his heart and feeling the beat as it slowed. His breathing gradually calmed and he released a contented "Mmm" sound, absently running his fingers through her hair.

After a few more silently euphoric moments, he spoke in a voice like velvet slowly draped over gravel. "Is it just me, or was that-"

Della interrupted, knowing that they shared the same thought. "-bloody fantastic? Earth shattering? Mind blowing?"

He chuckled in response, eyes shut, nodding his agreement with those unusually long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. "Yeah, all of those."

"It was. _You_ were." She mustered the energy to raise her face to his, joining their lips in a long kiss full of promise. Rubbing her nose against his, she smiled slyly. "Now let's get some kip so we can wake up and do it again."

Bell smiled sleepily, eyes searching hers with a silvery blue light as he tightened his embrace. Della returned her head to his shoulder and they drifted into a satisfied slumber, boneless limbs comfortably entwined.

**xxxxx**

OH MY. Looks like these two finally figured something out… but will the happy moment last? I think we still have a few issues to work through, personally, but don't mind me. I'm just the author!

Leave a review and let me know what you think will happen next! :D


	5. Chapter 5

Hello everyone! Just wanted to say thanks to all you lovely people who have been kind enough to leave a comment on the last few chapters. I'm so glad that people found this story, and the feedback is very motivational! :D

There was supposed to be plotty things happening in this chapter, but the characters would not cooperate. Therefore, what we have is basically fluff. With a little extra smut. And some cuteness. Della and Bell better not get used to this treatment! More notes at the bottom, as usual (you guys know I can't keep my mouth shut for long)!

**The Arrangement  
Chapter 5**

Dawn arrived all too quickly for William Bell, which probably had something to do with the fact that he had been up having wildly passionate and energetic sex for half the night. Now that he and Della had taken that definitive step, he found he couldn't get enough- not that he was the only one. She had awakened him first with a series of strategically placed kisses at one o'clock in the morning, sliding on top of him and initiating a second round that had him gripping her hips and grinding himself breathlessly upward into her willing body while she braced her hands on his shoulders and rode him with enthusiasm. Several hours later it was his turn to choose the terms. He'd buried his face between her thighs and teased her with his tongue and his fingers until she cried out in abandon, then flipped her over and fucked her hard, driving in and out relentlessly as she grasped the headboard. In point of fact he was totally shagged out, and it felt bloody fantastic.

Looking over at the clock on the bedside table, he sighed. If he didn't move soon, he would be hard pressed to make it home for a change of clothes before heading into the station. For once, it seemed, he had a reason to wish for that locker full of clean shirts that he had never allowed himself to accumulate. He had reversed positions with Della at some point during the night, waking with his lips on her shoulder and his nose buried in her hair. One arm was wrapped possessively around her exposed torso, joined in its total body embrace by a leg thrown across her lower half. He extricated himself slowly, noting her sleepy noise of displeasure as he rose.

Bell managed to find his boxers and his shirt, throwing them on haphazardly and moving toward the bedroom door with quiet purpose. There was movement from the bed, and he looked back to see Della's disheveled head peeking at him curiously. "And where d'you think you're going?"

He stifled a smile, observing that her accent seemed a bit stronger in her drowsy state. He walked back to the bed, placing a lingering kiss to her forehead as she reached out sleepily. Managing to resist her attempts to ensnare him, he chuckled. "Don't you worry about me. I've got a very important task to attend to- I assume there's coffee somewhere in this flat?"

Della waved a listless arm in the general direction of the kitchen. "Second cabinet." With that she rolled onto her front, burying her face into the pillow.

After determining which of Della's many cabinets was the fabled second one, Bell put the ever-important coffee on to brew and made an effort to locate his remaining clothes. Most were a bit rumpled, and the necktie was patently unnecessary. He stuffed it into the pocket of his miraculously dry overcoat once it had been retrieved from the carpet in the entryway and given a good shaking out. He hung the overcoat next to the door along with Della's denim jacket. Locating the remaining piece of his suit somewhere in the middle of the sitting room, he smoothed the jacket as best he could and draped it over the back of the sofa.

Returning to the bedroom in his shirtsleeves and wrinkled trousers, he arrived just in time to find Della leaning over to shut off the alarm clock. She had pulled on what appeared to be a well-worn Led Zeppelin t-shirt, bare legs hanging off the side of the bed. She peeked up at him, eyes fixing hungrily… on the cup of coffee he was holding toward her. She beckoned, shuffling back onto the bed and inviting him to sit.

They sipped their coffee in comfortable silence, leaning against the headboard, shoulders touching. Della's head tilted to the side in an aspect of surprise as she swallowed. "This is exactly the way I like my coffee. How did you…?"

There was a long pause before his answer, as the two of them had forgotten themselves and found both their glances straying from eyes to lips and back again. Regaining his composure, Bell answered with a shrug. "We've had coffee together several times now. They didn't make me a chief inspector for nothing, you know."

"Us journalists know these kinds of things too."

"Is that so? How do I take mine, then?" He lifted his mug above her eye level. "No peeking."

Della regarded him with amusement, quirking an eyebrow. "Hmm. William Bell. Strong, silent type. Tough on the outside but secretly rather sweet. Got to be black, two sugars."

Deflating, he shot her an astonished look as his arm returned to a more natural position. "You really are ridiculously clever, aren't you?"

She laughed in response, leaning against his shoulder. "Yes, but that's beside the point. We had coffee just last week, remember? Women are more observant that way, it's quite natural that I noticed."

"Only if you were… you know, _looking_." He placed his nearly-empty mug on the bedside table and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

Her arm reached slowly across his body, depositing her own cup next to his. Instead of withdrawing, Della leaned closer, rising onto her knees and facing him. He could feel her breath on the side of his face. "I _was_ looking."

It was impossible to tell which one of them moved first, but in the next moment they were kissing frantically. Their lips melted together, tongues stroking as he pulled her into his lap. She pressed herself against him, grasping the hopelessly rumpled collar of his shirt with both hands. He was dimly aware of the fact that she was most likely naked under the t-shirt she was wearing, and he made a small noise in the back of his throat as his hand slid up the outside of her thigh and just beneath the hem of the oversized garment. His other hand traveled up the back of her neck and into her hair. She seemed to take this as encouragement, straddling his upper thighs and tugging at his buttons.

"Mmmph, we shouldn't-" His voice broke as she licked along his collarbone and nibbled his earlobe. "I need to get to the station."

She ran her hands over his exposed chest, meeting his eyes with a fiery expression. "We'll have to make it quick, then." She scrambled to unfasten his belt and trousers and pull them over his hips, and he couldn't resist. His fingers found their way inside her shirt, gliding up her ribcage to tease a breast. His other hand wound further into her hair, tugging gently to expose her neck. She arched into him, squirming against the pronounced hardness now only concealed by his boxer shorts and vocalizing her pleasure by way of a small moan.

Mouthing at her throat, he felt one of her deft hands working him as she managed to free his erection from his boxers and stroke along its length. "Jesus, Della…" He released his grip on her hair, brushing his fingers over her flushed face where it hovered inches from his own. Della caught his index finger with her lips as it ghosted by, sucking it into her mouth and caressing it with her tongue and teeth.

Neither party seemed to mind the fact that they were both still half-dressed as she slid herself onto him. They swallowed each other's impassioned groans with a brief kiss as he wrapped an arm around her lower back beneath the old t-shirt she still wore, giving him enough leverage to increase the delicious friction as she rose up and pushed back down. His other hand continued to explore the contours of her body as he leaned against the headboard, wanting to feel every inch of her skin at once.

He could tell that she wasn't joking- at this rate it _was_ going to be quick. Her breathing was already erratic, warm brown eyes glazed with desire as they locked onto his.

Leaning into his wandering hands, Della braced one of her own on the wall above them and stroked the other up the center of his torso to the junction of his neck and shoulder. He could feel her tremble, moving her hips in a swift and rhythmic back and forth motion with his cock buried deep inside. "Love the way you touch me. William…!"

Tightening his one-armed grip on her waist, Bell growled and thrust himself upward, desperate for them to come together. "Ohhh _fuck_ that's good-" He trailed off, no longer capable of speech as her inner muscles squeezed and pulsed uncontrollably. She wrapped both arms around his neck and began to come apart, writhing and twisting in his hungry grasp as he exploded right along with her. He bit down hard on the soft spot just below her ear as he came in a flood, crushing her body against his and forcing her downward to prolong the sensual onslaught.

The two regained their senses after a long moment of happily fizzing euphoria, breathing in tandem. Both of his arms were still inside her shirt, holding her loosely while her body was draped across his torso with her head resting on his shoulder. She spoke first. "I hope you won't be too late."

"I'm a DCI. I'm never late- if I'm the last one in it just means everyone else happened to arrive early." He brushed her hair away from her face, gifting her with a rare unguarded smile. She returned it, leaning back far enough to straighten his collar and refasten a few of his shirt buttons.

The soft look she was giving him made his insides feel oddly tight and fluttery, and all he could think to do was to pull her head back down to his chest and hold her in his arms. God he was in deep, and he wasn't sure if the embrace was a celebration of this newfound tenderness, or if he simply couldn't handle being looked at that way and needed to hide. Either way, he wasn't ready to let go just yet- the crimes of Greater London would have to wait just a few more contented minutes.

**xxxxx**

_Loved up_. It was the only way to describe how Della felt, puttering aimlessly around her kitchen and trying to concentrate on the crockery as she listened to the subtle sounds of Bell moving around her flat. Yes, she knew it was far too soon to use words like _that_. Being a grown woman, of _course_ she knew- a few intense shags, even coupled with a surprising amount of post-coital snuggling, did not warrant use of the 'L' word. Unfortunately knowing and feeling are two different things, and the butterflies in her stomach did not want to conform to the guidelines of mature pragmatism.

She had called into the office and told them she would be running a little late, which was unusual for Della but not completely unheard of. Bell walked into her line of vision and she looked over her shoulder at him, feeling very exposed in her brother's old and oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt and some plain cotton knickers she had hastily thrown on. He stepped into the kitchen fully suited up and halfway through the act of pulling on his overcoat, looking more or less like the uncompromising DCI once again. The only noticeable incongruity was the absence of his necktie, which simply served to bring back memories of yanking it loose and tossing it over her shoulder last night.

Clearing his throat, he stood awkwardly in the entryway to the kitchen. Della blushed as she turned toward him and tugged at the hem of the t-shirt. _Good god woman, get it together. You had the man naked in your bed all night long, what are you getting so jumpy about?_

"Well, I should…" He gestured toward the door, rubbing at the back of his neck in what appeared to be a nervous gesture.

Della nodded, rocking on the heels of her bare feet as she peered up at him. "Right. Umm… bye then." She didn't know what to do with her hands, or the rest of her body for that matter. The awkwardness stretched. She wanted to kiss him one more time, but she wasn't sure if that option was still in play. Her brain was spinning so wildly that she almost didn't notice when he reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her against him.

He held her gently, his masculine scent enveloping her. She was interested to note that without any shoes she needed to go up on tiptoe to press her lips to his, even as he bent to meet her halfway. Della's nerve endings buzzed in approval. His height was certainly a scrumptious feature, along with many other things about him. The kiss was brief, but tantalizingly sweet. As they broke apart, her eyes were drawn to his.

"I'll call you later then?" It was more of a statement than a question, but he seemed to be waiting for her answer, or perhaps her permission. His irises were a calm ocean blue, with no sign of clouds on the horizon.

Smoothing down the front of his coat as a thinly veiled excuse to keep touching him, she smiled. "Okay. I'll be at the office until 6, maybe later."

In this they shared an understanding; both of their professions were highly unpredictable, so there was no way of being sure when they would have a chance to see each other again. And work wasn't the only complication- what about Bell's wedding ring? Della hadn't allowed herself to consider it during their night of unrestrained passion, but her conscience would never rest until she heard the truth of his situation from his own mouth. If they spent another night like this together, she would have to ask him. As for what she would do with that information once she finally had it…?

A smile flickered across his face as he turned to depart, one small quirk of the lips that made Della's insides twist. Whatever she found out, would it really matter? She was so far gone that she wasn't sure she could stop this now that they had started. Bell hesitated as he reached the door, spinning on his heel and stalking back to her. She found herself pressed up against the kitchen counter, arms flying around his neck as his tongue plundered her mouth. One of his hands cupped the side of her face, while the other wrapped around her waist and bunched the fabric of her t-shirt. Her knees felt like jelly as he finished the kiss by sucking gently on her bottom lip before releasing it, leaning his forehead against hers for a precious few seconds before he stepped back.

"Bye." Bell shot one more heated glance over his shoulder as he walked quickly away, opening the door and striding out into the corridor.

Leaning against the counter for support as the door clicked shut behind him, Della wondered how she was going to survive a whole day in the newsroom with thoughts like these running through her head. _It's a good thing my colleagues aren't mind-readers_, she thought, gathering the strength to propel herself toward the shower. What Della didn't realize was that no mind-reading would be necessary once the rest of the Herald staff spotted the rather obvious love bite she was sporting just below her left earlobe…

**xxxxx**

These two may have gotten a reprieve in this chapter, but contrary to what Bell's pretty blue irises may believe there are storm clouds on the horizon! Next chapter we'll return to your regularly scheduled angst and infuriating string of misunderstandings. Please don't hesitate to drop me a line and let me know what you think so far! :D


	6. Chapter 6

Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay with this chapter; things have been a bit busy around here! General busy-ness, hurricane related zaniness, the works. Hopefully this chapter will be up to snuff- I know Hemingway says that we should write drunk and edit sober, but I may have done the opposite in this particular case! :P

Thanks to everyone for the lovely feedback on this story. I really hope you guys will enjoy this chapter!

**The Arrangement  
Chapter 6**

Sergeant Cheweski was giving him a funny look.

At least Bell, a professional detective if there ever was one, suspected that this was the case. It could be that he was so desperate to avoid scrutiny, he had managed to convince himself that anyone within five miles could tell that there was something different about him. He _did_ feel different. He was fairly sure he didn't _look_ different, and a quick check in the men's room mirror had seemed to confirm this. Nonetheless, he could feel Chewy giving him the eyeball from the passenger seat as they drove back to the station.

"Problem, Sergeant?"

Chewy looked startled. "No, sir. Why do you ask?"

Clearing his throat, Bell fixed his eyes back on the road. "Never mind."

He'd managed not to be tardy enough for anyone to really notice, although his usual iron-clad punctuality did make the event rather singular. His delayed arrival could have easily been ascribed to a worse than usual commute or forgetting to lock the back door, rather than the true cause- his apparent inability to keep his hands off of Della Smith.

Bell's house was down a quiet street somewhere in one of the less ostentatiously gentrified areas of North London, and was plainly too big for one lonely person. He had driven there in record time, utilizing back roads and small lanes to avoid the buildup of morning traffic. It took him mere minutes to quickly shower, shave, and find what he needed in his neatly organized closet. Choosing an outfit was a simple matter since his whole wardrobe consisted of dark suits, carefully ironed white or light blue shirts, and a series of tastefully uninteresting neck ties hanging from the inside of the closet door.

In the end Bell had been about fifteen minutes late, taking great care not to look like he was in a hurry while entering the building. Chewy had raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but they'd been called off to investigate an armed robbery before there was time to discuss his tardiness. They'd managed to grab a sandwich just before midday, only to have the Super phone up and personally request Bell's assistance on the case of a missing foreign national. Those interviews had taken up several hours of his time and turned up approximately zero leads.

"So what next?" Chewy tapped his fingers on his knee as they parked up, looking at Bell expectantly.

Upon exiting the vehicle, Bell tossed Chewy the car keys, which the sergeant swiftly pocketed. "I suppose we go back and trace her last known steps. Can't really do much more until we speak to the boyfriend- if he was the last to see her, he may know something."

"Is he a suspect? The roommate did say they were having problems."

Tilting his head to the side, Bell pouted thoughtfully. "We can't even be sure whether there was foul play of any kind at this point… though if he keeps dodging our inquiries that might be a fair guess."

Chewy nodded. "We should try and catch him at home tonight. Building manager said he's usually back from work by seven." He looked at Bell sidelong, hiding a grin. "Unless you've already got other plans, that is."

Pausing at the door to his office, Bell felt like he'd just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He shrugged out of his overcoat, hoping his countenance didn't betray him. _For fuck's sake, I am too bloody old to be blushing like a schoolboy_. Looking at the clock, about to strike four, he thought about Della. They hadn't even spoken yet today, but the plans were indeed already made in Bell's mind. "If I happen to have any plans, they'll keep. I assume the same can be said for you?" He fixed Chewy with a very pointed blue glare.

Having the good sense to look slightly abashed, the sergeant agreed. "Of course."

"Good. Go and get a start on the paperwork, and meet me back here 'round six. I'll take another look through these files in the meantime."

Bell settled down at his desk, and found his attention drifting away from the stack of case files, settling on the silent weight of the mobile phone resting in his inside jacket pocket. It was the first bit of peace and quiet he'd had today, and all he could think to do was to call her. Releasing a sigh, he pushed the files to the side and leaned back in his chair. Reaching for the device without thought, he gave into the temptation and dialed Della's number.

**xxxxx**

Della's workday turned out to be similarly hectic. She'd forgotten about the spate of local elections coming up next week, and two other stories had broken overnight. Upon her arrival in the newsroom, merely half an hour behind schedule, she'd been frantically waved into Cameron's office to join the roundtable discussion of the eighty-five tasks needing immediate attention from the six people in the room.

Pausing in the middle of a sentence, Cameron peered at her over the top of his glasses. "How nice of you to join us. Where exactly _have_ you been?"

"I'm sorry, Cameron. I overslept…" The excuse sounded ridiculously weak even to Della's own ears as she slipped into her chair.

The others at the table glanced at her with varying degrees of skepticism. For a moment, she thought she was going to get off easy, but Cal apparently couldn't help himself. "Overslept, hmm? Why's that then, did somebody _sleep over_?"

Flipping her hair back from her shoulder, Della narrowed her eyes at Cal. "Why don't you just mind your own business?"

Dan leaned in from the opposite side, regarding her closely. "Eh, what's that mark on your neck?"

Della jumped in her seat, one hand flying up to the spot behind her right ear, traitorous mind replaying a delicious sensory newsreel of Bell's teeth sinking into her skin as they'd tumbled over the edge just a few hours ago. Any reply she might have made caught in her throat as the memory assailed her.

"I hope the good inspector at least bought you dinner before you let him have you for afters."

Pete snickered. Cal smirked knowingly. Helen examined her fingernails.

Cheeks displaying what might ordinarily be considered a very fetching shade of pink, Della ignored them all and turned her attention back to Cameron. "What do you want me to work on?" Silently she begged him: _Please send me out of the office so I can get away from these tossers._

Raising an eyebrow, Cameron twirled his glasses and bestowed a disapproving look upon all occupants of the table before continuing with the briefing.

After the meeting adjourned, Helen had been rather helpful with a magic recipe of liquid concealer and packed powder during an impromptu conference in the ladies' toilets- even if she did withhold her evidence-hiding expertise until Della shared at least a few of the juicy details. Never really one to kiss and tell, Della found the whole thing rather embarrassing. Talking about Bell made her feel oddly nervous, and those butterflies combined with the teasing of the other reporters had set her on edge. Taking her time in the ladies' after Helen's departure, Della gave herself a long searching look in the mirror and took a few calming breaths before heading out to face the rest of her day.

Five hours later, Della had returned to the newsroom with a stack of notes and some other materials obtained during a longer-than-strictly-necessary trip to the Herald's archives. She had volunteered to assist Helen with some research relating to the upcoming elections, reasoning that she'd rather immerse herself in a sea of dry political material than risk being paired up with one of her unceasingly juvenile male colleagues. She was just settling in to start compiling the information when her mobile rang. Biting her lip as she saw Bell's name pop up on the call screen, Della fiddled anxiously with her pen as she answered. "Hello?"

"Hi," said the gruff, sexy voice on the other end of the line. The greeting was followed by a few moments of silence, tinged with the sense that neither party was quite sure what to say next. Eventually, Bell continued. "Errr. Having a good day?"

Della smiled at the innocent triteness of the question, delivered by a man who was normally so grim and uncompromising. "Not bad. You?"

"Busy." He paused again, seeming to consider his next words. "Been thinking about last night. About you…"

He trailed off uncertainly, leading Della to wonder if Bell might be just as nervous as she was. She was suddenly very glad that Cal was not currently at his nearby desk, as her sunny expression was sure to give her away. Glancing around to make sure nobody was in earshot, she aimed to reassure Bell and lighten the mood. "Me too, not that anyone around here will let me forget- next time you want to take a bite out of my neck, at least have the good grace to tell me I should wear a turtleneck to the office."

Bell's short burst of laughter made Della's guts twist, not unpleasantly. "Oh, dear. Are they giving you a hard time?"

"You've _met_ them, haven't you?"

"Yes," he replied sympathetically. "I suppose I'll have to make it up to you. Tonight?"

Propping her elbow on the desk, Della leaned her head into her hand. "I've got a few hours' work left here. Then maybe you can give me a _hard time_ in your own way."

"Hmm," he considered. His tone was suggestive, promising. "I can think of _several_ ways I wouldn't mind trying."

Della's throaty giggle was cut short as she saw Cal and Helen approaching from the other end of the room. She schooled her face into what she hoped was an indifferent expression. "I'd best ring off before this turns into out-and-out phone sex. I'm in an office full of nosy journalists, you know."

He made a low noise in the back of his throat. "I prefer in-and-out myself, but I take your point." Della could almost hear him smiling. "I should be finished around eight-thirty. I could pop over to yours, maybe pick up some dinner?"

"Sounds nice."

"Italian alright? I know a good place."

"Lovely. I'll stop off and get some wine." Della chewed on the end of her pen, glancing down at the file in front of her as Cal returned to his adjacent desk.

Bell exhaled on the other end of the line, sounding pleased. "Okay. Great. I'll see you later then."

"Yeah, perfect. Later."

"Bye, Della."

The way he said her name sent a delightful shiver up her spine. "Bye."

Placing the mobile in front of her on the document-strewn desktop, Della tried her best not to let her elation show. Unfortunately for her, Cal knew exactly what to look for. He bent his neck, gesturing toward the abandoned phone. "Hot date tonight?"

Della had decided hours ago not to be bothered by any further teasing today. She shrugged, shuffling her papers somewhat imperiously and refusing to look him in the eye. "Maybe."

Cal typed his password into the desktop computer terminal, shaking his head with a small grin. "Good for you."

Pausing in her slightly exaggerated movements, Della peered across at the senior reporter. His attention was fixed on the screen, but he spared her a brief and earnestly friendly glance. Grateful for the apparent détente, she relaxed and settled in for a few very long hours of pleasantly distracted work.

**xxxxx**

Not for the first time, Bell was glad that he was on friendly terms with the owner of a very high quality Italian restaurant. He had first stumbled upon the trattoria owned by the Lombardi family about a year ago during the investigation of a jewelry theft at the other end of the road, and he'd been coming here ever since. The unpredictability of his profession and the state of his private life saw to it that a large percentage of his meals were eaten away from home, and although he could cook tolerably well for himself he generally preferred to leave the complicated stuff to the professionals.

In this particular case the expert in question was the eldest of the Lombardi brothers, Marco, who apparently fancied himself just as savvy in the language of love as in the art of fine dining. In spite of Bell's attempts to keep his questions about the menu discreet and to the point, Marco soon cottoned onto the fact that the inspector was ordering for two- and judging from the care he was putting into his choices, his dining partner was not the ever-present Sergeant Cheweski.

Bell was nursing a Scotch as he peered at the menu, propping up the end of the bar closest to the kitchen as Marco bustled to and fro, serving drinks and trying not to hover over his ordinarily stern and reticent guest. After Bell's third inquiry about wine pairings, however, the silver-haired proprietor took pity on him. "Inspector. You are dining with a woman, yes? Allow me to help you choose, or you will keep her waiting all night."

Unable to argue with such logic, Bell reluctantly permitted Marco to ask leading questions and direct his choices.

_Take a chilled squid and tiger prawn salad to start. I'll pack it in ice for you. Don't order pasta or risotto, it will be overcooked by the time you arrive. How about Osso Buco? It reheats well and pairs with red or white wines- it won't matter what she chooses. I'll have the kitchen serve it over some of Pietro's beautiful mashed potatoes. You must bring tiramisu. No, no, never take food to a woman without offering something sweet for dessert!_

Twenty minutes later Bell was laden with two efficiently packed takeaway bags, the cold items carefully kept separate. Marco looked on with satisfaction as his customer signed the charge slip, reaching behind the bar and bestowing a final distinctly bottle-shaped parcel. "Please accept this with my compliments." Peering into the narrow plastic-lined cloth bag, Bell found a very nice bottle of Champagne which Marco had selected and quickly chilled in a bucket while the kitchen worked its magic. It was wrapped in a white cloth and flanked by two small parcels of ice. Bell protested, but the older man would hear no arguments.

In short order he found himself being ushered out the door, with Marco soliciting a promise that Bell should bring his new lady friend here to dine in person at the earliest possible convenience. He felt like he had just been swept up into a tornado and dropped into Oz, such was the speed and effectiveness of the Italian intervention. For a moment, Bell could hardly remember where he'd parked the car, suddenly alone on the dimly lit sidewalk with the wind whipping around his feet. Shaking himself back into awareness he crossed the road and located the vehicle, driving the short remaining distance to Della's flat.

Della met him at the door, and Bell found himself enjoying the simple domesticity of the scene as she took the food containers into the kitchen. He hung his overcoat and his suit jacket by the door and followed her there, at which point they both had a laugh upon discovering that she hadn't known what he was going to bring for dinner and had purchased both red and white wine. She heartily approved of Marco's extravagant gift, so they popped the Champagne and each drank a glass as they spoke casually about their respective work days.

It seemed to Bell that she had a way of making even uninteresting things entertaining- unlike some journalists who treated facts like traded commodities, she appeared to be a natural storyteller. There was an energy about her that warmed him through and made him want to discuss the trivialities of every day life for the first time in a very long while. Della's eyes sparkled as she recounted the events of her morning, and he found himself content just to lean against the stove and watch her.

After a few more minutes, Della suggested that they start eating while the food was still at least moderately warm. Observing as she searched the cabinets for appropriate plates and cutlery, Bell noticed the infamous love bite he had left on the tender skin behind her ear. The sight made his heart beat faster, clear evidence of a passionate act he was suddenly eager to repeat. He approached her from behind, feeling a bit giddy with the Champagne bubbles, careful not to startle her into dropping anything breakable. Spying an opening as she set the tableware aside, he pressed in. Sweeping her hair to the side, he traced his fingers over the mark, replacing them with his lips as she tilted her head to grant him access.

Della made a contented noise, both of her hands braced on the countertop as he wrapped one arm around her waist and nibbled at her earlobe. Gasping, she turned her face toward his. "We should have dinner. You went to all this trouble." Her eyes fixed hungrily on his lips, and he knew they both shared an appetite for something well apart from food.

He kissed her with intent, blood fizzing, body already wanting more. "Mmm. Rather have you first. We can eat later." Their bodies molded together urgently, fitting like puzzle pieces as she turned toward him. Della's arms snaked upward, fingers brushing over his chest as their mouths battled. She tugged at his navy blue striped tie, involuntarily pulling him closer while her fingers worked into the knot. One small hand touched his face as they breathed each other's air, noses bumping.

"Want you…" she trailed off, seemingly unable to tear her lips away from his for long enough to form an entire sentence. That suited Bell fine. He pulled at the neckline of her knit shirt, taking the strap of her lacy bra along with it and revealing one pale shoulder. He caressed the skin there, teasing, lifting her further into his arms and angling his hips to grind into hers. Della trembled, trailing her lips over his jaw and biting gently at his chin as her feet left the ground.

The two were so wrapped up in each other that they didn't hear the sound of a key scrabbling at the lock of the door to Della's flat. The scraping noises continued for a minute or two, followed by a few moments of silence. What they did hear was the frantic knocking that followed, accompanied by a muffled masculine voice. Jumping apart, they were still and quiet, listening. More knocks followed and Della moved toward the door with uncertain steps.

Bell adopted a defensive stance, following a few feet behind her as she approached the entryway. The banging on the door continued, drowning out the insistent words of whoever was on the other side. Reaching the door and unlatching the deadbolt, Della's expression was oddly plaintive as she looked over her shoulder at him. He didn't have time to ask what was wrong as she opened the door.

Standing on the other side was a trim sandy-haired man, leaning against the doorframe. He looked significantly intoxicated, a hypothesis supported by the slur in his prominent Scottish brogue. "You changed the locks. I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

Della was frozen to the spot, breathing unevenly as she regarded the unexpected guest. "Craig, what are you doing here?"

Leaning against the wall, Bell watched the tableau unfold with a growing sense of dread. He crossed his arms over his chest, presence apparently unnoticed by the green-eyed Scotsman whose attention was squarely focused on the woman between them.

"What, I can't come see the woman I love?" He lurched forward, grabbing Della by the shoulders. "I should never have left, Della. Biggest mistake of my life."

So this was the ex-boyfriend Foster had mentioned. Bell noted Della's stiff and wary body language as she shrugged out of the man's grasp, and he expected her to lash out with a feisty retort at any moment. She was uncharacteristically silent instead, shaking her head back and forth and wrapping her arms around herself. Bell frowned, full of uneasiness at her lack of response.

Craig seemed to interpret her behavior as compliance, watery eyes pleading as he stepped closer. "Please, love. Take me back."

**xxxxx**

Oh Craig, you tosser. Looks like trouble here- _we_ might know that Della's not remotely interested, but what is poor Inspector Bell supposed to think? There are a few chapters still left in this tale, even including something that might resemble a plot! Got any theories? Drop me a review! I promise I'll share my weekend wine stash if you do. :D


	7. Chapter 7

Hey, dudes! Here's the latest chapter of _The Arrangement_. This one took me awhile, partly because it was extremely hard to write. These two are just such idiots, I swear. You will see what I mean. I didn't spend as much time as usual in the editing phase, so please let me know if I missed any errors. More notes at the bottom for those who enjoy babbling!

Many thanks to all those who have left comments so far. The feedback is very much appreciated. :D

**The Arrangement  
Chapter 7**

How was it possible for life to be so changeable, from one moment to the next? Della hardly knew which way was up, and certainly couldn't be sure whether the flush in her cheeks was a remnant of her pleasurable activities with Bell or a reaction to the unwelcome appearance of Craig on her doorstep. Part of her wanted to lash out. She wished she could shove Craig back out into the corridor or give him a violent kick in the shins in thanks for interrupting what was shaping up to be a brilliant night, but her surprise at seeing him here after so long had paralyzed her. Before she could accomplish the complicated verbal feat of telling her obviously intoxicated ex-boyfriend to fuck off, he had pushed unsteadily past her and into the flat. Della turned, a ball of uneasiness squeezing in the pit of her stomach as Craig came hazily face to face with a stern and rather nonplussed William Bell.

Bell was leaning against the wall just outside the entrance to the kitchen, long frame exhibiting a degree of tension and arms crossed over his chest. Craig pulled up short, finally noticing the taller man. He frowned, attempting to square himself. "Who's this, then?"

It was by no means the appropriate time to contemplate the intricacies of her relationship with Bell, but Della still couldn't formulate an appropriate response to the question. After all, what was he to her? Lover? New boyfriend? Married man who was happily shagging her on the side? She honestly wasn't sure yet. The worst part was that Bell was regarding her with a searching cobalt gaze, clearly interested in her answer. Unable to tackle an issue of such magnitude, Della went on the defensive. "It's really none of your business, Craig. What do you _want_?"

Craig tilted his head contemptuously. "Well it _has_ been three months- my mistake, that. Of course you would have started dating someone." He gave Bell an appraising once over. "Bit old for you, isn't he?"

Her lack of response coupled with Craig's drunken insults were enough to provoke an unhappy reaction from the chief inspector, silent up until now. He drew himself up to his not inconsiderable full height, pushing away from the wall. "I may be older than you, but I still know how to aim a punch."

Sneering, Craig took a step closer. "You wanna have a go, mate? Try your luck."

"Oh no. No no no. Don't even think about doing that." Della stepped between the two men, placing what was meant to be a calming hand on Bell's chest. She could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt as he involuntarily pressed forward against the restraint. She turned her head to the side. "Craig, I think you need to leave."

"Come on, Del. We had two years together. Don't shut me out, I just wanna talk to you…"

Craig made a grab for her free hand, which she promptly snatched away. The startled motion made her stumble closer to Bell, falling into his chest. His solidity was very reassuring. Della released a breath, turning to face Craig with her back leaning lightly against the man behind her. She was gathering her courage, ready to tell the unwelcome visitor to take a long walk off a short pier, but the words caught in her throat when she felt Bell place his hands on her shoulders and gently push her aside. She looked askance at him, but he avoided her eyes and edged around Craig and toward the door.

"William, what-" She trailed off, watching helplessly as he donned his suit jacket and reached for his coat. She glared at Craig as he stood, between them now, looking very self-satisfied.

Bell turned at last, hand on the doorknob. "Obviously one of us has to leave, and you've got things to discuss. I can see I'm in the way here."

"Too right," muttered Craig.

Before Della could say anything, Bell had stepped out the door. She stood for a moment in shocked silence, feeling bereft and rooted to the spot. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Looking at the place where Bell had been standing and then at the door he had passed through, she realized that her inaction had caused events to play out this way and she was the only one who could fix it- which meant she needed to go after him. Striding toward the door, she paused as she passed Craig.

Craig made to speak, holding up one hand. "I-"

Della poked him vigorously in the chest. "Shut it. I want you _gone_ by the time I get back."

Reaching the corridor just in time to hear the door to the stairwell click shut, Della hurried along. She wished she could rewind the evening just far enough to slam the door in Craig's face the moment she found him there, but hopefully the situation could still be salvaged. Inside the stairwell Della could hear the sound of Bell's footsteps a flight or two below. Calling his name, she sprinted down the stairs, catching up to him on the landing.

A thick silence echoed through the uninhabited space, air tight and still. The narrow platform was small enough that the two of them more than filled the space before the shaft twisted around for the staircase to descend in another direction. Bell's large frame was magnified in the confined area, his dark clothing standing out against the whitewashed walls. Holding onto the railing for support, Della regarded his impassive face, enhanced as it was by a closed off stance. She was reminded of his demeanor on the night her flat was broken into, when she had all but accused him of being responsible for the act. He wouldn't quite look at her, whether out of anger or indifference she wasn't quite sure.

"I'm sorry," she began, "I don't know what he's doing here. We broke up months ago and I haven't seen him since."

Bell gave a small, dark smile. "Well you know what they say, hmm? Absence makes the heart grow fonder?" He shuffled his feet restlessly and stroked a hand over the lower half of his face.

Frowning, Della tilted her head sideways and tried to catch his eye. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Ignoring her question, he carried on with his puzzling monologue. "I guess I should have known, really. What with you still wearing his clothes and all."

"I- what? You're not making any sense. _What_ clothes?"

Their eyes met, and his showed a distance. "This morning. When we were… together. That shirt was three sizes too big for you." He shook his head, making a disapproving noise. "I bet you don't even _like_ Led Zeppelin."

Della crossed her arms, mouth dropping open in shock. "I do, as a matter of fact. Craig hates them, and it isn't his shirt." She couldn't bring herself to tell him that the shirt had belonged to her older brother Andrew, who had died when she was a teenager. Della had adored Andrew, and the shirt brought back memories of lying on the floor in his bedroom back in Glasgow after Sunday dinner, sharing a set of headphones as they listened to _Led Zeppelin III_ at full blast. She swallowed back the wave of sadness, wrinkling her eyebrows.

"Look, this is all pointless. Why don't you come back up? I want you to stay."

Bell pouted silently, fixing her with his blue stare. "And what? Watch the two of you kiss and make up? No, I don't think so."

Thoroughly perplexed, Della took a step forward so that she could look directly up into Bell's face. "That isn't going to happen. I told him to leave!"

Their faces were close enough that Della could feel the turbulence as they both tried to breathe the same air. For a moment, his intense gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips and she was almost certain he was going to kiss her. Knees weak, she leaned against the pylon that ran up the center of the stairwell. Standing his ground, Bell looked furious and Della still couldn't pinpoint why. She wished that he would channel that anger into a kiss, press her body against the wall, dominate her, plunder her mouth until she was gasping for air. Instead he was alarmingly still.

"Yes, I heard you ask him to leave. Even I could tell you didn't really mean it. Fiver says he's up there making himself at home right now. Pouring himself a drink, putting his feet up on the sofa."

His words were surprisingly cold, and it made her realize how much she had come to care for him, the serious extent to which her affections had evolved. His manner was detached and inflexible, like it had been in that dim hospital hallway many months ago. The ease with which he could apparently turn off his feelings tripped something within her. Perhaps he never cared about her at all, and maybe sex was really all he wanted. How else could he so easily disregard her intentions?

"Well you clearly don't care whether I meant it or not." Face heating, Della tried to keep the tremble from her voice as she allowed her own anger to build. "I'm sorry this interferes with your obvious plan to get into my knickers again!"

Bell towered above her, eyes blazing. "_Plan_?" He huffed. "As if I'd need one! It was easy enough the first time." Pacing back and forth in the small space, he appeared to be wrestling with something. "Next time you're looking for a rebound shag do us both a favor and pick someone else, okay?"

The sound of Della's palm connecting with Bell's cheek echoed through the stairwell. His head snapped to the side, not expecting the contact, and she could feel a hot tear running down her own face as he slowly turned back to face her. "Don't you _dare_ assume that you know how I feel. It's not like you've ever bothered to ask!"

For a moment he had the grace to look abashed. Della shivered when he raised one large hand toward her face, drawing back at the last moment as he watched the tears glide down toward her chin. There was a moment where she could have reached out, taken his hand, thrown herself into his arms. She let it pass, protecting herself from rejection with the blanket of fury that had settled over her. The next few words were out of her mouth before she could even think of stopping them.

"Anyway, you're one to talk. You're _married_ but that didn't stop you from getting your end away. And poor naive little me, I just let you have whatever you wanted!"

A prolonged silence hung heavily between them as he absorbed her attack, his jaw giving an involuntary twitch. "And this is what you think of me? That I'm married. And _what_? Running around London when I'm off duty, fucking every pretty girl I meet?"

Della frowned, gesturing toward Bell's left hand. "What was I supposed to think? Of course I noticed your ring, but I started to feel like it didn't matter." She swiped at her face, stubbornly unwilling to acknowledge the tears. "I kept telling myself…"

"Let me guess. You told yourself that since I was so obviously married and up for it there was no reason to feel guilty about using me for sex. Then I'd be off home to the missus with all the blame lying squarely on my shoulders. Is that it? Cheers, Della."

This was all going horribly, horribly wrong. Della didn't know what to do or say, losing more of her footing with each barb they slung at each other. Bell was radiating anger, but there was an undercurrent of anguish to his attacks that she simply didn't understand. His eyes were swimming with it, darting across her face, a deep and drowning slate blue. She wanted to tell him that _no_, that wasn't what she wanted. That she wanted to be in his arms, that she wanted him to stay, that the only thing lying on his shoulder should be her head when they woke up tangled together. The words wouldn't come. Della hugged herself protectively, trying to dull the empty pain that was already settling in the pit of her stomach. "No, William. I didn't-"

The sound of a door opening and closing echoed through the stairwell and slow, deliberate steps could be heard approaching from the floor above. Della's thoughts were scattered, the moment broken as she tried to convey her feelings to Bell just through a look. He rocked on his heels, and there was a moment of hope where he looked like he would say something, stepping toward her. She could see his chest rising and falling, smell his spicy aquatic aftershave. He was close enough to reach out and touch, and she _wanted to_. As old Mrs. Jenkins turned the corner, however, Bell shook his head sadly and slid past her without saying a word. The sleeve of his coat brushed her arm as he turned away and she watched the back of his head until he was out of sight, with the futile hope that he would turn back.

Slumping against the wall as his tall form disappeared, Della felt utterly destroyed. What had she done? Surely this was all some sort of huge misunderstanding. God, why had they never talked about any of these things? His marriage, her failed relationship with Craig…they had been too busy talking about work, and then shagging each other's brains out. It had all happened so fast and it was too soon to quantify or categorize their relationship, but now she had hurt him and she didn't know exactly what was wrong or how to fix it- or even if he would let her get close enough to try.

As Mrs. Jenkins passed slowly by, smiling and greeting her with pleasantries, Della felt more than a little out of control. The old lady's sunny expression was like a harsh mockery of the turmoil in the younger woman's racing mind and wounded heart, and to make matters worse there was still Craig to deal with. Pushing away from the wall with a steadying hand, Della concentrated on moving her legs one at a time and studiously avoided thoughts of what she may have just lost.

**xxxxx**

_What the fuck just happened?_

William Bell had made it as far as the front door of Della's building, carried down the remaining stairs on a wave of pure adrenaline. He leaned against the cool stone façade, traitorous mind flashing with images of a rain-soaked kiss barely twenty-four hours earlier. Breathing unsteadily, he banished the thought from his mind. Bloody hell, how could he have been so stupid? He'd jumped into this with both feet, never even bothering to hear from Della's own mouth that her relationship was well and truly over.

As for himself, it was painfully clear that he wasn't ready for this kind of emotional upheaval. There was no room for bouts of lovelorn angst in DCI Bell's life; he couldn't show weakness and wasn't apt to make the same mistake twice. The fact that he had misjudged Della and imagined that she felt things for him that she obviously didn't? Well, it cut like a knife. How could he have got it so wrong? She thought he was _married_, for fuck's sake!

Bell looked down at his wedding ring, feeling a sense of betrayal to which he could assign no source. He couldn't betray his wife any longer, long gone as she was. Was it possible to betray her memory through his actions? He wasn't sure. Della may not have been above reproach, but she couldn't be blamed for getting the wrong idea- even if the fact that she could think him capable of such base adultery hurt more than he was willing to admit. They had never discussed their personal lives, their relationship overwhelmingly dominated by their two very demanding professions. He had obviously gotten carried away, thinking that their night together meant more than it did. But God, how he'd wanted her. He _still_ wanted her in spite of everything, and had feelings for her that were dangerously strong. This was insanity… perhaps the only person he had betrayed was himself.

Straightening, he adjusted the front of his coat. Tamping down his wildly raging emotions, he ignored the tightness in his throat and headed off to find his car. Bell was not the type of man who typically approved of the use of alcohol as a coping mechanism, but in this case he figured he could make an exception. After all, the evening certainly couldn't get much worse. Bell glanced up at the front of the building once more as he walked away. He forcefully refused to imagine what was happening in the flat he had just left behind, and resisted the urge to run back up the stairs and punch Craig until he bled. Surely a few drinks would calm him down, and soon enough he would forget all about Della Smith...

**xxxxx**

Ugh. You are such FOOLS! Della and Bell, that is. Not you, the readers! Talk about a misunderstanding. I know how to fix it, but it won't be easy... with all the hangups and insecurities these two have, they'll be lucky to get back together this century. Fortunately I, the author, can help them with that. ;)

I spent a lot of time listening to the Led Zeppelin song _Since I've Been Loving You_ (from _Led Zeppelin III!_ That should make Della happy at least) while writing this chapter, so if the angsty drama has a slightly blues-y tint to it, that is why.

Bell's aftershave was here described as 'spicy and aquatic.' Not sure if he's a cologne type guy, but I can sort of imagine him in something clean-smelling like Armani Acqua Di Gio or maybe even Polo Blue. Yum. Yes, I really do spend too much time thinking about these sorts of things. :P

Hope you guys enjoyed this update. Drop me a review and let me know what you think- anyone who does is invited to join me and Bell on an angsty, Scotch-fueled pub crawl. Surely we can cheer him up a bit. WHO'S WITH ME?


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